


By the Rising of the Moon

by Reinette_de_la_Saintonge



Category: Hornblower (TV)
Genre: 18th Century, 19th Century, American Revolution, Anglo-Irish Relations, French Revolution, Gen, Historical References, Irish Republicanism, Season 2, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:41:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23751739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reinette_de_la_Saintonge/pseuds/Reinette_de_la_Saintonge
Summary: The war he sought to fight in would not be inflamed in the Caribbean by an aging captain. He was useless, and toothless, a burden upon his countrymen and fellow members of the Society of United Irishmen- so Hornblower’s trial came to him as a godsend.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 11





	By the Rising of the Moon

**Author's Note:**

> ...So, I do tend to have an odd fondness for the baddies. And (Irish) history. And I think, while always enjoying a good shwashbuckling extravaganza with sword fights, explosions and gallant young heroes in period costume with outrageously good hair, that _Hornblower_ 's antagonists were a bit shallow.  
> Wolfe's name was clearly chosen to represent Irish republicanism- so it was clear from the get go that this guy'd be trouble. His co-conspirator Hammond was trouble, too, but like Hornblower himself, I had, doubtlessly a little naïvely, not suspected Hammond to be the 'traitor'.  
> ...Or is he?  
> Here's my little attempt at creating a backstory for Hammond's motivations through the lens of one of the most intense events in the series- Hornblower's trial in season two.

Kingston, 1802.

Captain Hammond frowned, huffed, and rolled his eyes. He knew full well that his current deportment was more that of a wayward child than befitting an officer of His Most Britannic Majesty’s Navy- but then, _His Majesty_ in London, alongside his fat, foppish son and the rest of the Hanoverian brood could kiss his arse, really- and, God willing, someday would.

He didn’t doubt for one second Hornblower had done anything punishable- the lad was not the kind of man to kill for power- he considered himself driven by loftier notions harnessed into a construct of rigid personal honourability than to be capable of murdering on account of such base instincts as an insatiable hunger for power, which made him quite insufferable to be around; a dull, self-righteous boy he was- he should have joined the clergy instead of the Navy.

Everything the lad seemed to attempt, succeeded, all deeds of daring recounted before the court were nothing short of the stuff of future legends- Hammond did not envy Hornblower’s peers, always eclipsed by the deeds of the young upstart. Some had served the Navy since their 12th year while Mr Hornblower had joined at the ripe old age of seventeen, and had instantly made his name as the Midshipman Who Got Seasick at Spithead. And yet, he had turned his fortunes around to be viewed as a hero by his men, and the Commodore.

Where there was the Light of Glory, there always was the Shadow of Jealousy also. Men whose own fortunes wilted in Hornblower’s shadow had cause to wish him ill, and now, their day had come, and they had seen the opportunity to strike. As far as he was concerned, these discontented accusations against one of the Navy’s most capable young officers came at the right time.

Hammond smirked. It was funny, really, seasick at Spithead. Besides, the smirk came well-timed with yet another thinly-veiled defence brought forward by the Commodore.

Pellew was a capable officer, had been a good frigate captain, but his heart was too soft. He had been defending the Lieutenant like a lioness her cub since the beginning of the trial, and Hammond found some personal enjoyment in watching him squirm in his forlorn attempts to pull the younger man’s neck out of the noose that had started to tighten- for the moment, only figuratively speaking. In a couple of days, hopefully, quite literally.

Getting Hornblower sentenced and hanged would end a budding career that might end in a desk at the Admiralty, a knighthood, and great influence in Politics- the lad didn’t know it yet himself, but Hammond had seen the unyielding flame in his eyes- Hornblower himself might mistake it for the innocent, pious ambition to do well and impress the mother hen that was Pellew to him, but in truth, it was a hunger to rise through the service, prove himself, and earn the love of the British public. An ambition that would make the boy a dangerous man one day, coupled with him being a capable sailor and an inspirer of men- Hornblower was a young man who could easily rise to become an efficient frigate-captain rather sooner than later who’d chase and capture French and Spanish ships, or an Admiral who might fight and vanquish these very same nations at sea.

And that, Hammond could not let happen. Hornblower, Pellew and he were divided by the same thing that unified them: they were all patriots who fought for their country with zeal and effort. Yet while Hornblower and Pellew did it standing on the quarterdeck of their ships, he did it in a more clandestine way.

If discovered, he could easily end up on the gibbet next to Hornblower, for his ‘brother’ officers would surely disagree quite strongly with his views- even more so than they did already.

In the end, he’d shoot any of them at point-blank range, if he would find himself opposing them in battle.

But to that, it would not come. He would break them both, Hornblower and Pellew, and do it _now_. Hornblower would hang, and the stain of his dishonour would discolour Pellew’s spotless reputation quite a bit. He could see two birds killed with one stone, if he could bring the sentencing about.

He could make it so Pellew and Hornblower would never pose a threat to France and Spain again- Hornblower would be dead, and Pellew rotting on his country estate on half-pay, slipping into obscurity over the years.

A pity they were Englishmen- men of their zeal and capability were sorely needed in his country- with bitterness, he thought on the Battle of Tory Island. They, his ‘comrades in arms’, had intercepted the French Ships by Lough Swilly and captured Tone, killed and captured what had remained of the ships meant to deliver French soldiers to Ireland.

The dead of ’98 would never be forgotten- Tone, Lord Edward- brave, valiant men they had been, men with a conscience, men brave enough to openly face the English in battle.

But that hadn’t been the first attempt his brave countrymen had made to break the chains that bound them: the dear Commodore might well remember the winter of ’96 and ’97, which he had spent off Bantry Bay in _Indefatigable_. For that alone, he had a personal desire to see the man in hot waters as Revenge for the gallant French allies who had drowned when Pellew had sunk _Droits de l’Homme._

 _Droits- Rights_ , Hammond mused bitterly, the English knew nothing of, and had crushed the rights of his country like _Indefatigable_ had the French man-o’-war. Last year, they had made Ireland part of their kingdom- and with what right? There was not even a parliament in Dublin anymore, London's rule was direct and absolute.

Inflamed with rage, Hammond more than ever wanted Hornblower’s head on a pike- the weapon chiefly carried by the croppies of Wexford during the last rebellion; and Pellew’s, too.

The blood in them could never equal that spilled by those many brave Irish boys and their heroic leaders; but it would be a start, watering the mills of Rebellion once more.

It was a pity he had not been able to fight there himself, with Tone and Tandy, FitzGerald, McCracken, Murphy and the rest of them- but he had been assured his services aboard the English ships would be as welcome and valuable as any on the battlefield; perhaps even more so. They had told him he was as brave a United Irishman as any, and his fight as important as theirs.

In the quietude of his cabin, he often resented himself for having believed them, for not having been able to do more. He had not been able to give sufficient warning both in 1796 and ’98, he had not been able to do anything at all, save for letting a few Irish fishing boats go free whose cargo most certainly did not consist of herring, and now, his post in the West Indies meant he was of no direct use to the Cause anymore. News from Dublin or London would reach him, if at all, much delayed and the War he sought to fight in would not be inflamed in the Caribbean by an aging captain. He was useless, and toothless, a burden upon his countrymen and fellow members of the Society of United Irishmen- so Hornblower’s trial came to him as a godsend.

He could wreak revenge for ’96 upon Pellew by smarting him with the death of the lad he pretended not to favour as if he were his own son and could, through the death of Hornblower as an honourless murderer of his own captain, blacken Pellew’s, the lad’s chief advocate and benefactor, name so profoundly he would hopefully never be given any meaningful command again- they’d make him a port-admiral maybe to keep up appearances, but never would his gross misjudgement of and previous blatant favouritism for a man capable of the deeds Hornblower stood accused of be given an active command again. That would mean two Englishmen off the Navy’s quarterdecks in one sweep; two Englishmen whose greatness as naval officers would be sorely missed by their country, which in turn would help Ireland. It was not much, but it was something.

There had been a time when he had been much like them. He had joined the Navy as a youth; the second son of a landowner in the north of Ireland of whom could have been said that he was wealthy enough to support one son, but not two. He had never minded the life of the sailor, and had taken to it with activity and zeal, until he had arrived in America in ’74 aboard the _Preston_ as her third lieutenant. He had been young and impressionable then, and looked for an Adventure with the promise of glory and prize money that seemed to be within reach, for what power on Earth could defy the might of the British Navy?

Upon arriving in Boston however, the scales had fallen from his eyes: the ships stationed there lay idly in the harbour, unable to carry out their duties for being too large and unwieldy in the treacherous labyrinth of shallows and islands surrounding the city; the ships themselves were rotting, for the Admiralty sent no money to maintain them, and the crews were decimated so devastatingly the old Admiral, a staunch believer in Man’s right to choose whether to join the Navy rather than to be impressed, had heavy-heartedly agreed to send press-gangs out.

It had been dark days then, and he had realised how impossible it was to govern an Empire with a kind and nurturing hand, that it was always Tyranny designed to oppress and intimidate, that while the Navy’s ships lay moulding, the likes of Rawdon and Tarleton, who called themselves 'gentlemen', murdered and plundered the populace.

If faced in battle, he would let live any Irishman who had opposed him, provided he would see the error of his ways and lay down his sword- Rawdon, he’d hang. An Irishman has honour- only a greedy Englishman kills and plunders with verve and zeal. He was no better than the men he had sworn to fight, governed by Greed and Power alone.

He had been sent back to Portsmouth then, when the position of the old Admiral had become so untenable he had to be replaced. He had found Compassion for the man; his advisers had chiefly been fellow Irishmen, and General Gage, patron to the likes of Rawdon, had made of him a mockery. It was then he had come to think first on how, tho’ of Protestant stock, people behind his back imitated his accent to poke fun at him, how one, however loyal to the Crown, could never truly be accepted into English Society if one was not like them; they had sacrificed a loyal, capable officer to hide the mismanagement and personal avarice of the fine Lords at the Admiralty on account of his origins, and the supposed failure to become a self-serving sycophant who hid behind a veneer of bows and 'very good, your lordhsip'-s.

It had caused him to think, and kindled a certain resentment in his heart that he had kept to himself for quite long, until the tide had changed in his favour, and there seemed to be more men in the country thinking like him, men brave enough and willing to set themselves, and Ireland apart from English rule.

He had started to view the American rebels increasingly favourably following his return, until he had arrived at the conclusion that their cause had been just; and when France had rid itself of its tyrant, he had stood by, and watched in awe, with hope rising in his chest and vowed that the only flag he would fight under was the green. He had turned completely from any convictions he had formerly held and joined the Society of United Irishmen two years later, who had welcomed him, after initial suspicion on account of him not hiding the fact that he was an officer in ‘His Majesty’s’ Navy, with open arms.

It was easy, so easy: all his orders were copied, and sent to Ireland by way of one Barry McCool, a gentleman employed as his boatswain’s mate, who would disguise the valuable information in letters to his wife (who was not a woman of flesh and blood, but Hibernia herself) and sent it to the unassuming address of a sweetshop in Dublin, from whence one of the late FitzGerald’s men collected any letters twice a week.

Everything was planned with precision: no one would ever be able to trace his so-called ‘treason’ (for that was how the English saw it), allowing him to do, when the opportunity should arrive, real damage. Should another ’98 be attempted, they would call in the fleet, and he would be there to blow Pellew (he hoped they’d sent Pellew) and his ships to pieces of smallest matchwood. Together with their French allies, they could beat them- not today, not tomorrow, but their day would come, and his, when he could finally be of real use to his country, and did no longer have to pretend to be what he was not.

He was an old man, but could hold reasonable hope to see a free Ireland in his lifetime. Wise with the knowledge and disillusions of his years, he knew that blood would run in rivers and colour the fields and rivers of Connacht, Ulster, Munster and Leinster red, a sacrifice that was utterly necessary, however horrid it had to seem to any man with a conscience and convictions.

However, he would make sure it would not be Irish blood, of which too much had been spilled already; this next sacrifice would be of English blood, and Hornblower would only be the start of it.

He would keep his head down, his deceit clandestine, and would only rise from the shadows when the time was right. At present, he could work for Ireland’s cause without having to fear detection; an old Captain described by many unflattering epithets already would only have to face the possible peril of being accused of having made his judgement out of jealousy of the younger man, but that he could live with: Hornblower could, should die for all that he cared, so that young men like Jack, his nephew, could one day flourish.

It was a hateful equation to weigh the life of one man against that of another, but a necessary one- and besides, it was the blood of an Englishman against that of an Irishman, which quenched any notions of guilt quite effectively.

It had to be done, for the benefit of the living and future generations who would one day thank the heroes of the present for the sweet fruit of liberty that would grow in all Irish trees and hedgerows, fields and meadows.

The name of _Captain_ Charles Hammond might well fade into obscurity as time and sods of grass would overgrow his grave, and wind and rain and snow render the inscription on his stone illegible, but the Ireland he had help build would still be there, and what greater memorial could he wish for?

Proud young people would sing the praises of the men of ’98, and all previous occasions on which brave Irishmen had openly opposed the English oppressor, and cherish their republic and their freedom so dearly that two hundred years from now, Ireland would flourish still, and be known as a beacon of liberty and happiness throughout a world the British were claiming for themselves like maggots a wheel of cheese.

Four years ago, brave men had sacrificed themselves for their cause, and now rotted in their graves; but their spirits would rise again, and give hope and strength to a fight that would soon break out anew, and he would be with them.

No; they were with him already in this comparatively small skirmish that was fought with words, not weapons: for Tone, Lord Edward and all those nameless men who had died trying to give Ireland her rightful freedom, he would hang Hornblower.

It was all he could do at present, undermine the morale of the men by having executed one of the Navy’s most popular commanders, thus prevent the rather brilliant young man from any future deeds of daring that might hurt Ireland or her European allies and blacken Pellew’s name through his intimate association with the young Lieutenant, whom he had more shamelessly benefitted than old Graves had his numberless nephews.

For the moment, that was all he could do, and it was quite satisfying even. He would bide his time, lie patiently in waiting like a cat a-hunting, before he would seize another opportunity and strike again.

One day, he would finally be able to take off the English coat of blue and shew his true colours, and fight those men he pretended to tolerate in their capacity of brother officers. A new moon would rise over Wexford and Dublin Castle, and bring in a new tide that waited only for to be sailed by a capable sailor.

**Author's Note:**

> The title has been taken from the 19th century song _The Rising of the Moon_ which praises the rebels of 1798. Concretely, the rising of the moon refers to the assembly of the Irish troops in the night of the 20th/21 June 1798 before the Battle of Vinegar Hill that commenced shortly before dawn. 
> 
> Hammond, though his motives were not explained any further in the series, fits very well into the historical context of the time, and actually cuts a rather believable figure. Being about the right age to have lived through the American and French Revolutions, he was inspired by their ideals and success. 'Turncoats' were a thing, too- the famed Lord Edward FitzGerald previously served in the American Revolution as a major before coming to fight the army he had once served with in 1798. Actively spying while in British uniform is however more a thing I'd associate with the wake of the Easter Rising of 1916 and the ensuing War of Independence 1919-1921, but it does not seem entirely out of place within the given historical context as well.  
> In 1802, Ireland had seen the failed landing of French troops in 1796, the Rebellion of 1798 and had been made a part of the Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland under the Act of Union in 1800. In 1803, Robert Emmet would stage a renewed rebellion in Dublin that ended in his execution.  
> The Society of United Irishmen were founded in 1791, and quickly forbidden by the authorities, causing them to negotiate with France clandestinely. There were fears Ireland might become dependent on France once they'd gotten rid of British rule, but it was a risk they were willing to take. The events alluded to in the story, such as the wrecking of the French _Droits de l'Homme_ by Pellew's _Indefatigable_ and the Battle of Tory Island are actual historical events. 
> 
> Banastre Tarleton and Francis Rawdon-Hastings were British officers renowned for their ruthlessness and cruelty during the American War of Independence.
> 
> "Croppy" was a nickname given to fighters of the Rebellion of 1798. The term referred to a political statement made by cropping their hair short in contrast to the fashionable long (aristocratic) hairstyles of the time. 
> 
> Barry McCool I borrowed from the novels.
> 
> Some of you familiar with my other work might be familiar with Samuel Graves- who was no revolutionary or Irish nationalist.  
> He was however haunted by accusations of having a tiny little weak spot for the American rebels and one period source went even so far as calling him "a Traitor to his country". The inactivity and ineffectiveness he was accused of when serving as Commander of the North American Station are largely as Hammond recounts them in the story; the Admiralty was more than unhelpful and unwilling to spend money on the maintainance of ships and crew, not to mention that the vessels in Boston were unsuited to the tasks they had been assigned to perform as they were too large and unwieldy.  
> The press, the public and the Admiralty however soon pinned the blame on Graves alone. Unpopular and with a rather explosive personality, a penchant for rude remarks and swearing, the brazenly nepotistic Graves who was in an open enmity with General Gage, was at one point caught up in a fistfight that ended with his nephews taking over Boston as a gang armed with sticks in search of the challenger and controversial tactics was the perfect target for pointing fingers. 
> 
> It should however be noted that at least one source pokes fun at his voice, suggesting he had a strong Northern Irish accent and that at least one of his two closest advisors was a fellow Anglo-Irish officer from Co. Cork, not to speak of the countless nephews he tended to favour with lucrative commands, who were all natives of Castledawson/Co. Londonderry.  
> Hammond's assumption that Graves had in part been sacked and betrayed by the Admiralty for being Irish is not entirely groundless. 
> 
> Graves was no rebel or revolutionary, but he did entertain some notions of personal freedom that would not have been standard at the time; he opposed impressment, tended to be very generous giving to the poor, was married to an outspoken Bluestocking (her demand for legal equality and equal opportunities would not have been out of place at a 1910s suffragettes meeting) whose ideas seem to have rubbed off on him somewhat, and while serving in Boston, two young men, one formerly stationed on his flagship, the other a nephew, were closely acquainted and exchanging poetry with the first ever published African-American poet Phyllis Wheatley. His godson, who joined the Army, would later go on to establish first legal steps to the eventual abolition of slavery in the British province of Upper Canada.  
> Taking these things into account, it's easy to see how the rather tolerant Graves might have kindled suspicion in less open-minded souls.


End file.
